Monsters
by laZardo
Summary: As the sky begins to fall, the demon lord that ruled it prepared at long last to build his throne. This prequel to Memoirs is the story of how he built his kingdom. New Chapter: All demons have a hell to rise from, but those that rise choose to.
1. High Above The Mucky-Muck

_Original story based on characters and material created by Project Aces. The author takes no for-profit ownership of them._

* * *

**Prologue: High Above The Mucky-Muck**

**Prestige Tower  
87 Rue Magdalene  
13th Arrondisement, Farbanti, Erusea**

**19 July 1998**

The business carried on by Farbantians as rush hour began to set in didn't seem that much different from when the apocalypse wasn't looming above their heads. There was only a quiet tension, the acceptance that even though death and destruction was imminent, the only thing to do was take it day by day and hope that maybe they wouldn't be deemed unlucky in the great wheel of fate.

Fifty-odd stories above the commute and just near the top of the haze, someone was trying to get the best seat in the house.

Standing as tall as a professional Osean football player but clad in a business suit that only seemed to make his surly, darker-complexion figure seem even more formidable, the client seemed to take his time perusing every detail of the tower's two-story penthouse. The sunlight seemed to be completely absorbed into the crests of his wavy hair as his silvery eyes darted their gaze from one item of furniture to the other.

He was accompanied by one of the building's sales agents, a purely secretarial figure who might have literally been half his size but posed twice as much confidence - or at least attention to the routine - to compensate.

"And here we come to the best view of the entire penthouse: the great Usean sunset setting across our coastline. On a very clear day you might just be able to catch a glimpse of the cliffs of Torchester just beyond the horizon."

The Erusean real estate agent was clearly making an effort to hide her forced smile and hyperbole showing him around with scripted lines she'd probably memorized dozens of times over. After all nobody of a pedigree less than royalty or Vinewood A-List, let alone of her buyer's heritage got a penthouse condo on the west side of the capitol's ultra-glitzy 13th Arrondisement unless they had plenty of money to throw around.

Were it not for the grandest of outside intervention clearing the list, he wouldn't even have known they were open for buyers.

"You're very lucky, Monsieur Petters." she continued, before trailing off at the end.

"Please, not so loud, I don't want the neighbors to hear," he asserted jokingly, turning to face her with piercing gray eyes. An appearance like his required special skills when it came to shifting identities, and he'd shown some very well-crafted fake identification when he showed up for his appointment. Especially when this was the kind that ultra-luxury properties like this made through connections rather than pamphlets or crudely-crafted World Wide Web sites.

"But of course, of course. Discretion," she replied with a nod, adjusting her glasses. "Still you are either very lucky or very crazy."

"Why's that?"

"Usea is not exactly a buyer's market right now. From here to North Point and across to Sant-Mikael," she explained nonchalantly. "The insurance rates are skyrocketing right now even for the studios."

_Of course they are_, he thought. Any number of large meteors making impact on the planet in the next year could not just instantly vaporize prime property like this - but also chuck its remnants up into orbit to rain down on the other unfortunates.

The man turned back to the window, safe in the knowledge that this wouldn't be his only property acquisition. "Money's not a problem for me. I'm more worried I'm going to have all these floors to my lonely self."

"Fortunately, non," the guide continued, trying not to understand his sense of humor. "We have actually had one other buyer in the past few months."

"So I'm not the only crazy one," he chuckled. "Who am I going to be sharing the cell block with?"

"No. Messieur...well, he was more upfront about his name..." she took a deep breath as if the name she mentioned was obviously that much more important than he was, "_Mssr. François Mondeci_ is someone like you."

The larger man raised an eyebrow. "Really. An enterpreneur, or just plain crazy?"

"A little bit of both...he's the youngest man on the board with ELE, Erusean oil, but he's got stakes everywhere too. Armaments, precious metals and minerals, diamonds..."

This caused the man to wince a little. "I suppose he's more discreet about where those diamonds came from than where he throws his money."

"Yes, I suppose he was less forthcoming about those specifics," the guide continued with a slight chuckle that appeared more creepy to him than it really was. "But he's definitely not shy about where he wants to live. He bought the penthouse in our tower next door."

"Then I guess I'm going to have a very nosy neighbor," he chuckled.

The real estate agent seemed frazzled by the continuous jabs. "What was it you do again?"

"I told you, I'm an investor." Like the real estate agent, he'd uttered that line so often that even he was starting to believe it. "An enterpren-"

"Ex-military?" she replied, pointing it out like she'd known him for years.

"..." His mouth opened, but he didn't have the words to follow it up. He had no idea how to react. Of all the people to question his background...

"You don't have to be ashamed about it, monsieur, I can tell from your demeanor," she laced her inner victory with the salve of appeasement, "Plenty of soldiers and mercenaries getting rich these days."

_And went broke trying to enjoy it like I do,_ he thought. "Hm. I thought you were going to-"

"A sale is a sale, monsieur. As long as the neighbors don't file a lawsuit, we prefer to keep our client list internal," she reassured him.

"And that's correctly assuming I'm a buyer," he nodded. _Unless you still don't smell the money wafting into your nose._

He then turned back out to look down at the people milling and cars roaming, his hands in his suit pockets. Doing what he'd done all his life, it wasn't as surprising that he'd completely overcome his fear of heights as much as it was that bullets weren't coming up at him from down there anymore.

Now he wasn't just looking down at every conceivable walk of life, but he was also high enough up - literally _and_ metaphorically - to not have to worry about them trying to drag him back down.

"So you're interested?" she asked. It would have been a voice laden with enthusiasm if she weren't shuffling between the company's properties to find something that could sell in a neighborhood now as temporary as a remote village in the mountains thanks to the powers of the universe.

He turned to face her, his smile almost as seductive as it was enthusiastic. "I'll come by to sign the paperwork when you have an empty spot in your schedule."

"Thank you, monsieur," she replied, returning his grin with a formal, satisfied smile of her own.

"And I'll be paying cash, unless you need a money order," he continued, with a low-pointed finger for emphasis.

"We'll explain payment plans later on," Her smile brightened a little before a conspicuous beeping noise drew both their attention. "_Excusez moi_, I have to take this."

"Go ahead," he replied, politely waving her off.

The real estate agent immediately withdrew her cellphone from her purse. The thing was about the length of her forearm but it continued to amaze him how the newer models didn't even require batteries bigger than her purse. She pressed a button that beeped about as loud as the cellphone's ringing through the purse, and immediately ducked out of his line of sight to answer the call.

He took the time to resume taking in all the details of his new view of the landscape. The view went clear across the roofs of the _arrondisement's_ smaller towers, out into the Spring Sea that separated Erusea from the Osean landmass. At the height of summer, it would be a few hours yet before he could experience that "famed Erusean sunset."

But he still looked up at the sky, at the few puffy clouds traversing the horizon and the occasional Aerusea jets flying to and from Farbanti Nouveau Internationale. It was the kind of deceptive peace and tranquility observed only by people who had never taken to the sky except perhaps in the comfort of such a passenger jet.

And he began laughing triumphantly.

For years, as long as he remembered, the sky was the only place to escape the desperation and anarchy on the ground, and a part of the world that didn't want him except when they found him useful for their dubious causes. Three years ago he'd made the choice to expand his horizon. Now he was buying a penthouse condominium in one of the world's foremost capital cities, and indulging in the material excesses that money and a reputation as a monster could buy.

And in all that time, even to those that knew him, "monster" was one of the milder insults he'd received among the cornucopia of insults dealt in who knew how many languages.

He had long forgotten when he decided to stop fighting that moniker, but when he did he decided to embrace it. Then he made the sky his lair, enriching himself off the terror he instilled into his enemies and the reverence he inspired in those to whom he allowed to hold his leash.

The last three years that the "monster" alternatively known as the Demon Lord and Scarface had spent as a monster had quite simply been the best three years of his life.

And until the skies he ruled finally fell upon him, he was all but certain his best years were still in front of him.

* * *

_**To Be Continued...**_


	2. Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

_Original story based off characters and material by Project Aces. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them._

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**Chapter 1: Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap**

**Somewhere in Central Sotoa**  
**13 March 1995**  
**2331 hrs.**

The small, unpainted brick cottage the team of mercenaries were looking for lay 600 meters down a dirt path that connected to a road about 6 kilometers from where the pavement ended, in some fairly dense bush. The cream-white and muddied Karin SUV that carried them with its lights out stopped about halfway down that path, before a curve that brought the cottage into view, and let its passengers out into the nearby brush.

The three mercenaries knew that at night, the brush could be home to any kind of predator, animal or otherwise. In this part of the world, the only difference was that the animals were born with their weapons.

They could spot the cottage ahead, and a cursory peek through binoculars could at least tell that its sole occupant wasn't at the window. That didn't make it any more safe.

The man they were looking for was the reason they were loaded up to raid an encampment. They spread out just enough that they could see each other and cover three sides of the cottage while the SUV driver backed up and made his way around a nearby clearing to observe the fourth. The Gebet-made FAL rifles they wielded weren't anything fancy and were probably older than they were, but the soldiers kept them maintained like new. They moved slowly, minimizing the noise they made to their own breathing, as if expecting a homemade trap every third step.

The door was unlocked.

They crept in, sweeping all corners in the living-dining area with hand-wielded flashlights, shining them on furniture in disuse or general disrepair before making their way to the bedroom.

Their target was already visible from the front door, and they could swear they could have heard him before they even got to the house.

Sleeping soundly and clad only in a pair of boxer briefs that might have been one size too small, the pilot clearly looked the part of the slumbering beast. Entering his mid-20s, he had a lumbering figure and complexion from one side of his heritage, and wavy hair and other burliness from the other. His muscles weren't exactly sculpted thanks to the lack of dietary options in this part of the world, but they did possess just enough mass to give the impression that he could easily wrench someone's limbs off if he tried.

The lead mercenary could already hear his target snoring the moment he entered, but he assumed it to be a trick recording until the moment he saw the sleeping beast.

"Wake the fuck up arsehole," the lead mercenary ordered with a low mutter, shining the flashlight of his FAL in the pilot's bright blue eyes, "It's time."

With a conspicuous groan, the pilot slowly sat up on the side of his bed, keeping his eyes squinted shut as he yawned and stretched as if there wasn't a gun pointed at him. The other mercenaries didn't flinch, but they did take one step back from their leader. He looked a little smaller than he did when he was sleeping, but still big enough to take down the lead mercenary if he clearly wasn't as sleepy as he looked.

That didn't stop the mercenary's two comrades from keeping their rifles raised at him.

"Is it morning yet?" he asked groggily as he rubbed his eyes. _Could've fucking knocked at least._

The lead mercenary knew that, as he lowered the rifle and sighed in frustration.

"Didn't think the Dragon of Gambesi would be so easy to find," he began, rubbing his forehead.

_Dragon of Gambesi was last month's nickname, fuckhead._

"Didn't think you'd take so long." the pilot groaned, yawning before continuing. "I was about to have a nice dream for once." A smarmy smirk crept across one of his cheeks. I think maybe you were in it.

"Smells like you were already havin' one, bru," Danie replied, waving his hand in front of his nose. It wasn't that much colder out in this savannah than it was in the day - and the pilot had built himself into a brick oven. "You really fit in out here, makes me wonder why you'd want us to get you out."

Danie never referred to the pilot by his real name. Maybe that was because the pilot derived some kind of masochistic enjoyment from being referred to by the expletives they gave him over the years in place of his real name.

"I'll tell you during the ride out. Lemme put on some fucking trousers first," the pilot muttered as he stood up and stretched his arms, his hands almost brushing against the ceiling when fully raised.

"Don't forget your papers, too," Danie gestured toward the side with his FAL.

"Yeah, yeah, I already had them ready," the pilot growled, grabbing and putting on a worn pair of jeans and a tanktop along with an old Makarov pistol he hastily shoved into one of his pants pockets. He then made his way to the bed and withdrew a small suitcase from under it. The suitcase had a folder on top, which he removed and held under his other arm.

"Come on, let's bounce," Danie continued, gesturing with the rifle for the two to leave.

The SUV was already parked outside, the driver having kept the engine running as the four of them got back in. The pilot sat in the middle of the back seat, between Danie and one of his teammates. Fortunately for them, there was ample room that they weren't squeezed in too tightly.

"I can't believe the monster is actually leaving his lair," Danie remarked with a surprised smile on his face as the vehicle began accelerating back up the bumpy path from whence it came. "And I'm the one to chaffeur you out!"

"Yeah, well, it's been getting kinda boring around here," he sighed, looking out into the brush. "That and this monster's flat out broke."

"That explains the fucking Air Force greens you got in your closet there?" Danie added. He'd noticed a brand new uniform of the new government's fledgling air force stashed in the same clothes drawer as the pilot's casuals.

"Did I fucking stutter?" he asked, like it wasn't a big deal at all. "At least _someone's_ bothering to offer me a paycheck that doesn't fucking bounce."

"You gotta be desperate to join those revolutionaries' air force, though," Danie countered, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're still young, you don't want to retire like that."

Stable governments weren't exactly characteristic of the Central Sotoan countries where the pilot of many unsavory nicknames had earned his bones. They'd thrown off the shackles of oppressive colonial rule only to find that their local revolutionaries were only united in the same 'enemy of my enemy' philosophy exhibited by the global superpowers during their Cold War.

"That's why I also asked you to give me a fucking glide out of here," the pilot laughed before turning to look out the window with a hint of resentment. "Pasture's plenty green on the other side, better pay than the same fuckers paying me to drop grenades on some floppy encampment or swat some Yuke surplus out of the sky."

Danie had known the pilot to be carefree and colorful with his selection of words, but he could understand the sentiment underneath. The newfound realities of the meteors had gotten the world's more powerful nations to attempt mending relations with each other, which meant pulling support for their preferred factions in what was left of the region.

As a result, some countries found a way for the majority blacks and minority whites to live in some semblance of not killing each other daily, while others simply continued as they were, some even escalating the conflict knowing the world would be looking up at the falling stars rather than inward at the blood already being spilled.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Much to the pilot's regret, he'd ended up in a country leaning toward the former. The local air force was more than happy to recruit him as a symbol of talent over their neighbors and whatever faction refused to come to the negotiating table.

And at least they could actually guarantee they could pay him in currency that was worth something,

"I'd say there's still plenty of work down on the ground, but I know you'd just say-"

"No fucking way?"

"Exactly," Danie chuckled. "So you know what you're gonna go for once you get to Wilburg?"

"Papa had a connection down Usea way that could pull a favor for me in case I ever needed it when he died," his tone slowly became more solemn, but didn't quite lose its edge, "Made his own private company called Triple Spectrum, you know them?"

Danie shrugged. "Nah, never heard of them."

The pilot nodded. Plenty of private security companies had sprung up in the past few years, a motley and volatile mix of former South Sotoan army men, mostly-developed-world hoodlums and ex-cops and nobles looking for a foreign thrill, and even locals seeking anything from catharsis to food in their bellies.

While these demographics made up the majority of the mercenary population, not many companies survived unless they could build a clientele that could rely on them, including resource companies and the occasional government agency. And the anarchy that continued to encroach over central Sotoa made jobs bigger than simple security or training work anything but viable without the backing of a corporation or a superpower's government.

"Got contracts across Usea now that they've gone Chicken Little," the pilot explained. Most of these companies were headquartered in Usea, not just for legal purposes but also for the meteor-inspired gold rush. "Security guards, logistics, consulting, training, the usual. But I gave them notice that I wanted out to the Ustio 6th Air Division."

The mention of Ustio caused Danie and his comrades' jaws to drop, even causing the driver to look back right as they reached the main road. "You crazy, man?" Danie asked, hoping his comrade for once wasn't being serious.

"...What? I need a challenge," he shrugged, having long since gotten used to finding way to surprise even his most battle-hardened comrades. "And their planes actually don't fall apart when they leave the hangar."

"I know Old Man Rijnders had crazy friends but Ustio isn't exactly the brush, mate," Danie pleaded as if he also knew exactly what he was talking about. "The way things are looking in Dinsmark, you'll be facing bigger monsters than yourself."

"...and?" he turned to face his friend with a grin. "The fascists are steeped in _old-tyme_ tradition and knighthood. They'll _never_ see an 'uneducated savage' like me coming at them."

Osea's rowdy neighbor could never match it or Yuktobania in size and weapons quantity. So Belka made it up in quality, and had easily thrown its weight around several times this century. But the last decade hadn't been particularly kind to them after their post-Expansion War financial ledgers had a few misplaced decimal points. Getting rid of their conquered territories for pfennigs on the mark damaged their pride enough that it enabled a fascist party long thought dead to rise from the ashes and took power.

Ustio was among the first territories to escape the former Federation, and now its former master was looking to rein it back into its fold by any means necessary, with the full support of its military-industrial complex.

"Ah, hell." Danie hung his head and laughed defeatedly, "There's always a method to your insanity. S'why people want you."

"Oh, they want me, all right," the pilot replied, his grin turning feral and toothy as he adjusted himself in his seat by a quick gyration of his pelvis. "You're worried you'll miss me, love?"

Danie only raised an eyebrow as he remembered that the pilot's list of conquests didn't just include destroyed planes and military vehicles. "I'm gonna miss our drinkin' rounds, that's for sure, bru. If you think things are boring _now_, wait till you leave. You sure you don't want a tour with me and the ExOps boys? The way things are heating up in Puma Serra..."

The response he got was boisterous laughter. "I'm about ready to take a nap first, okay? Just wake me when we have to give the damn papers."

"Sure thing, bru," Danie sighed, "It'll be a ways before the border anyway."

The pilot considered imagining what could happen in this part of the world if someone with enough lust for power and blood had access to an arsenal like Belka's or Osea's, and not just the occasional crate of Yuke, Osean or former colonial surplus.

Then he realized he was going to find out first hand anyway. He leaned his head back and resumed his dream.

* * *

**South Sotoan Border Crossing**  
**14 March 1995  
0722 hrs.**

"Oh hey, remember that one floppy tried to escape in some old clunker, and you followed him all the way to the Mediverusean in that knockoff MiG?"

The sun had since risen, the first wafts of the desert heat bearing down upon the border checkpoint and slow roasting anyone waiting inside the vehicles. Fortunately, the conversation had long since resumed, and the Karin had working air conditioning.

"Pretty sure he went down over the Emirates, mate," the pilot replied dismissively, trying to recapture his thoughts. "Oh yeah, that was back when that Emirates mining company sponsored the Liberation Front."

"Yeah, they weren't to happy to see bits of their _sponsored_ ace raining down on their manicured beaches," one of the other mercenaries chuckled. "Wait, that's also when you ran out of fuel on the way back and Jakobsen's boys scraped you off the sand?"

"Is that how you describe my getting my first taste of actual Yuktobanian vodka at the People's Labor celebration at the oasis?" the pilot feigned a glare. "Besides I didn't run out of fuel, it was Made In Verusa-"

"Vodka? That was bottled paint thinner and you know that!" the other mercenary guffawed.

"Look, all I'm saying is that Jakobsen's guys didn't have to ruin the fun-"

"Papers and passports, please." Their conversation was interrupted by the border guard, who wasn't in any mood for a chat.

The SUV had finally inched its way up to the front of the queue in its lane. The guard was a fit-looking fellow who was also developing a frustration on his face that suggested that he was recruited a little too late to do some fighting, but was content with having a leader that was more conciliatory than others in the region.

"Leisure, just finishing up with business back there," the driver said, pointing back to the pilot.

The pilot responded by winking and puckering at the guard, who rolled his eyes. "Just hand over the papers," the guard replied, much more disturbed than flustered. "

"Sure thing," Danie replied, taking the folder that the pilot had carried under one arm and handing it forward to the driver, who then passed it to the border guard.

The guard read through each of the papers and passports, running Danie and his crew through the usual list of declarations before gesturing to a comrade to perform an inspection and search of the vehicle.

"Funny thing is," Danie muttered to the pilot below his breath, "People say that the more you're in the brush the more you miss civilization but honestly, it's like both of these places are on a commute."

The two turned to the back where one of the custom's officers had just opened the rear door and began peering inside.

"That a threat to make me go legit?" the pilot asked, feeling genuinely threatened for the first time since Danie extracted him.

Danie chuckled. "No, man. Just that it reminds you, it reminds us. Whether behind a desk or behind a gun, you're representing who you're fighting for."

"Now you know that who _I_ represent and who _you_ represent are two different fucking things," the pilot countered with a slight sneer, "As well as how they fight."

"And we lived because we're a little professional about it at least," Danie added. "We know what we're getting into, and we try not to dig graves deeper than six feet under, true?"

"I guess," the pilot acknowledged, "Mine's already a mile deep. Might as well call me a demon if it's gonna be dug straight to hell, eh?"

"Okay, you're clear to take him to Willemsburg," the guard said, as his comrade slammed the rear door shut and slapped his hand on the window to signal that they were good. The mercenary team received their papers back in a small folder.

The entire operation had been disguised as a bounty hunt. Having lived and worked as long as he did in that part of the world made him wanted in more ways than one. So he decided to give the opportunity to get him out of a land where risk now outweighed reward, to the people least likely to cash him in. Danie had become part of a professional outfit that understood the balance between doing things to the letter and doing them right.

"Anyway, what I meant to say was," Danie continued as the SUV pulled away from the checkpoint, "You're gonna become part of a legitimate enterprise working in a more developed part of the world. You can fly as you were, but they're going to need you to be much more professional about it."

"Don't worry about that then, bru," the pilot replied calmly, "Don't think that none of my 'old man's' manners rubbed off on me."

"Just sayin', man," Danie nodded, opening the window just a crack to let the stale air out. "But yeah, I think you'll do just fine. You're not the type to let anything get away if you want it bad."

_No shit I'm going to do fine... and considering what other countries call vodka, I'd want the paint thinner instead._

* * *

**Willemsburg International Airport**  
**Willemsburg, South Sotoa**  
**1121 hrs.**

'Bounties' brought into South Sotoa for a variety of reasons got turned in at any variety of locations, but never at the main terminal of Willemsburg International. 'Bounties' were also never brought in without something to restrain them. Although the mercenaries kept their armor on as they arrived in the airport's primary outdoor parking lot, they kept their sidearms ready as they let their 'bounty' out into the sweltering city heat. The pilot also left his gun with them.

He'd put on a tropical button-down shirt, having kept his brand-new army issue dress boots so he wouldn't get kicked out of the airport so quickly. Any casual onlooker would have probably mistaken him for a South Verusean tourist or worker. Some carefully-applied deodorant and he certainly wouldn't smell like one either.

"Hey! Where's our reward, bru?!" Danie asked, licking his chops.

"You were expecting one?" the pilot replied sarcastically, before waving it off. He put down his suitcase and took out three thick bundles of Erusean francs. He walked up to Danie and discreetly pressed them onto his palm, concealing it by putting his other arm around the merc's shoulder. "Nah, I'm just fucking with you. Here, this is for the beer run I'm gonna miss."

Danie flipped through each of the bundles, making sure at least most of the bills were actually Erusean francs. "Yeah, there's barely enough left for fuel, asshole," he assured the pilot, before waving. "Hey good luck in Ustio, bru!"

"I won't need it, Danie, cheers!" the pilot replied as he watched the SUV drive off.

Once he was sure they were out of view, he put his suitcase up on a nearby cart and went through it for his ticket and passport.

The passport was faked, Benjamin Smith wasn't even his real name. Fortunately it wasn't exactly hard to tell real from fake when it came to documents issued from the country he'd left. He'd paid much of what was left from his savings to make sure the visas were real, though. After all, he was technically headed to a part of the world that was already setting up computerized databases.

Yet while he could believe the passport, he couldn't believe his itinerary, which had to be contained in several tickets.

Any other year, it would have been first class to Directus via Caerdon and a modern train to the base of the Tyrann mountains with skiiers looking to catch the last of the winter's virgin snowfall.

Thanks to Belkan aggression around its neighbors' airspace he would get there by flying to Mons via Vriesterdam, taking at least two trains to Ratio and a bus up to Valais township.

The one thing these two trips had in common were the taxi rides to the base, nestled far up in the mountains. He could only hope that he'd brought enough guilders to make it to the end - and that Belka didn't decide to invade before he got there and got adjusted to whatever kind of plane they would assign him, if he got a fighter at all.

He also took out an old pilots' jacket that was much too warm for the weather, slinging it over an arm.. The jacket had a couple of old patches on it from squadrons long since dissolved with their nation - along with a cheap one of a devil from an Osean college or professional sports team he couldn't identify and was only there because apparently whoever sewed it on thought it looked nice. He kept it close to him though, as it was much more than a souvenir or any old hand-me-down. It also had several thousand guilders in an envelope tucked into an inner pocket - the last cash to his name at this point.

Nevertheless, his eyes were already scanning through the itinerary, which occupied his attention all the way into the terminal and right up to the South Sotoa Air check-in booth. The terminal itself was still mostly the same as it was before the new leadership, but the uplifted mood of the country had reflected generously on its appearance, with plans for new, larger terminals under way for the international sporting events they wanted to hold.

"Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?" The check-in agent was probably the first time he'd seen a civilian smile of his own will in months.

"Oh, sorry," he chuckled, "I'm on Flight 667 today."

_Heh. Neighbor of the beast._

Her smile distracted him from the fact that he hadn't entirely considered exactly what kind of aircraft Triple Spectrum would assign him. In terms of fighters Ustio had inherited airfields full of Belka's almost-retired leftovers, Expansion War bounties and some newer models given by Osea to sweeten their natural resource deals with the Ustian government.

The fact that Triple Spectrum guaranteed him a pilot job was mainly due to the fact that most of their better pilots went back to Belka.

He handed his passport and ticket over before locking the combo on his luggage and placing it on the scale. "Finally getting out of here."

The check-in agent was cheerful about it, probably having heard that from many a tourist that experienced Wilburg's local "culture" firsthand. "Congratulations, Mr. Smith. Would you like a window or aisle seat?"

_Seriously, I should have just asked the guy to write Kobus Rijnders on it._ "Aisle seat. Preferably near the restroom." _Even if it's my adopted name, it's still interesting...__  
_

"Is this the only bag you'll be checking in?" she asked, gesturing to the old suitcase.

"Yes, ma'am. No carry-ons but my jacket."

"Anything to declare? Any firearms, perishable or hazardous materials, cash over 10,000 Osean zollars?"

_Only that it's a shame that I won't get to see the sights on the way up to the goddamn mountains. Oh, and there might be a bug or two in the jacket._

"Nope." _And it's only 3,000 guilders. Probably 1-to-2,000 Osean, tops._

"Okay, just give me a moment..." the agent continued as a baggage handler took his suitcase and lugged it onto a conveyor belt that would hopefully send it on its way to the plane. As it disappeared he quickly felt up the jacket just to make sure those 3,000 guilders were still there.

"Okay, sir. Gate B7, you're checked through to Mons. Enjoy your flight, Mr. Smith!" she continued right off the script, as she handed him his boarding pass.

He smiled back, as soft as he could without flashing his teeth. "I will, ma'am. Thanks."

This was far from the first time he'd actually been a passenger in an aircraft, and definitely not the first time he'd taken a commercial airliner with any identity. Sometimes it was the most convenient option to get from place to place when the people after him focused on the _non_-commercial routes of transportation. And it certainly wasn't his first time out of Sotoa, having taken "stopovers" in West Verusea other out-of-the-way neighbors to the cradle (and the grave) of civilization.

But this was the first time he decided to strike out on his own, out in what was now the great unknown, in a much different climate against a much different enemy. Trying not to get stressed out on the flight out of Sotoa would be the very least of his challenges, though he knew his adoptive father was not one to keep con-men in his inner circle when it came to job offers.

Or at least he didn't keep con-men near him that he couldn't easily find when they tried to pull a fast one.

_Hopefully the jacket isn't the only thing protecting me from the fucking cold._

The jacket did, at least, manage to clear the security checkpoint.

* * *

**Onboard South Sotoa Airways Flight 667  
****1506 hrs.**

There was no better reflection of how much South Sotoa had changed than the view of the 747-200's business seats. Where once even plane travel was restricted to the elite minority, now many members of the majority were taking advantage of the new leadership's policies ostensibly for the country's benefit.

_Heh. Guess Danie was right, there's probably more money fighting in the office instead of the diamond fields. Maybe they should just make their own armies._

This helped the pilot feel a little less alienated as he made his way down the rows. He found his seat and shoved his jacket into the overhead storage bin, sprawling it in front of someone else's luggage in what little space remained.

Even he was surprised at how good a business class seat felt as compared to the cockpit of a MiG or Shenyang, as he put on his seat belt almost out of reflex. It felt as if he could just doze off and wake up in Vriesterdam like the 15 hour flight around Usea boiled down to a science-fiction teleportation.

"Okay, dear, here's our seat."

"Mama, can I sit by the window?"

"Sure! Now you go in first..."

Or at least the seat would make him comfortable enough to observe the young FATO mother and her son taking their seats opposite the aisle from him. It was better than observing the harried-looking businessman in the window seat next to him. He was already engrossed in some travel magazine, probably as a way of distracting himself from that Osean-looking tourist between him and a quick route to the restroom.

The child kept his face almost glued to the window as the plane took off, his wonderment rendering him oblivious to the Jumbo Jet's noise and rumbling. Soon even he was staring out at the sky.

The sight of the two entranced him. Perhaps it was the sight of a family not having to cower for its life, or simply a parent and her child unarmed.

"I can't wait to tell Papa about this!" the child exclaimed.

Perhaps it was his pilot's instinct and the benefit of hindsight wondering how things could have turned out were it not for something or other.

"Just sit down, dear," the mother assuaged her son, "It's going to be a long flight, and the sky's not going anywhere."

A small smirk crept across his face as he diverted his gaze in case the child's mother thought it suspicious, before he leaned back and tried again to savor the comfort of business class. The last set of comforts before the storm.

_Once we were all innocent. But no more._

_And yeah, my sky's not going anywhere._

* * *

_**To be**** continued...**_

* * *

_Author's Note: So I was in the middle of writing this during Nelson Mandela's recent death. With all that in mind, that facilitated a bit of toning down in places. With any hope we'll all be getting to the Valais action very soon._


End file.
